Come Little Children
by ThyHeavenlyYard
Summary: Series of Moonless drabbles. Instrumental with woos.


It's easy for him to explain why he was so enamored with a child.

* * *

He had thought himself complex, deep, inspirational in some artistic way.

A little girl five years younger than he read him, solved the complex Rubrix cube that was "him" in a matter of a month.

A mere month, when he had been seeking his whole life to arrange a cohesive combinations of stress and syllables to form a string of beautifully molded words that could express _him_.

He had been angry at first, being outdone by a child.

She didn't mock him for that.

She stared at him with large brown eyes that he had grown to despise.

She watched as he cried.

She didn't once offer him any sort of help, comfort, not a single bit of kindness.

It was only when he stumbled to his knees did she step forward and embrace him tightly around his shoulders.

"It's alright. I'll protect you, since you're mine now."

"Yours."

"That's right. You were mine ever since you had a soul. So it's nothing new. You're just not used to seeing me in flesh, that's all."

"A soul."

"You have one. Because you're supposed to complete me. You're have to be good enough."

"I hate you. Don't touch me."

She stiffens, and lets go. Back away from the soul-mate who has just rejected her.

"Oh."

He has been childish and immature to say something of that nature to a twelve year old child.

". . . why do you hate me?"

"Because you kill."

"I-"

"No, not even that. You don't feel anything when you kill, a murder doll. That's disgusting."

". . ."

"Do you want to defend yourself?"

". . ."

"Then I'm going home for tonight."

It's just as he's half out the door she whispers to herself,

"But you cried."

He slams the door shut.

* * *

Defined by a half lust, half weariness, he's drifted. He said he was a liberal without any active movements; his friends called him a nihilist, but he wasn't quite sure of that term could encompass his being.

"My Fighter." The girl tiptoes to him, grasps his hand. "You need to be more friendly."

"Why should I humor a little kid?" Disgruntled.

"I'm your master."

"-tch."

He pulls his hand away from hers, and a bit of shock flickers across her face. Kitten ears press down on the sides of her head.

"You kill."

"Why are you so focused on that point?"

"Because it's a horrible hobby."

"It's not a hobby."

"Then what do you call it? I don't see you _not _liking it." No use denying the slight widening of her eyes when she swings down the butcher's knife, the faintest trace of delight in the form of a grin.

She stares at him, measuring up his ability to handle the truth. Thin shoulders, visible through the translucent nightgown, shrug in contemplation.

"A duty. Somewhat."

"Somewhat? Don't fuck with me."

"I exterminate rats. That's it."

"How the hell do you equate a rat's life with a human's?"

"But they aren't human." Her voice is cold. "They've discarded their humanity and became trash the moment they decided to ignore all their values. That's why they run away. That's why I drag them back to face their God."

"Are you human?"

"I'm. . ."

"What?"

"I don't feel like one."

"Then don't touch me. Skin contact is only for those who are human."

She turns away, and in that brief moment a pang of regret- alien in nature, throws the playback of its echoes into the crevices of his heart.

It's hers, ringing across the bond of theirs.

* * *

Harsh breathing, lips met. His hands tighten as he grips the back of her head, crushes the bundle of hair in his fist.

"-nn." She mumbles a slight protest as he pulls away. Lips are swollen.

"I- no, sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" She looks at him blankly.

"I've hurt you."

"-hm?" She raises a hand to her lips, and a faint blush reddens her cheeks.

"Nothing."

* * *

"You can do what you like to do to me. Revenge. You can hurt me."

"I'll think about it."

* * *

The thin strip of pain marked across his face throbs with his heartbeat, but he stands it.

"That one is for the first time we met."

Stays silent.

The second whiplash is one millimeter off from the first.

"That's for the first time you turned away."

"-I'm sorry." Regret, in his words, his pleading gaze. "I didn't know."

A third lash.

"And that's for the times you've called me a murder doll."

He feels a slight trickle on his face. He's not sure if it's blood or sweat. The cool air conditioning chaffs against his raw skin; he's acutely aware of the sheer physical being of _himself._

A fourth sting. He hasn't really appreciated the coiled muscles in her steady arms until now.

Fifth.

Sixth.

Seventh.

"Does it hurt?"

Eighth.

Ninth.

"I've hurt you."

Tenth.

"You have," she agrees. The tip of the whip traces his jaw, before she drops it to the ground. She leans in, a little closer to him.

Kisses his forehead.

"I've been cruel."

"It's your nature to lash out things you don't understand. Do you see? Your sin?"

"A sin."

"A purely conceptual term. I thought you were a type to believe in a God. You certainly seem to have Christian values. The suffering you silently endured just now was equal to the weight of your crime. Does this relieve you a bit, suffering for a sin?"

"You say crime, sin- do you believe in those things?"

"It's only a crime if you violate your own beliefs, or if you are defeated. Faithfully remain entrenched in your code and trust in a certain victory, and you're a martyr, not a criminal."

"Like Napoleon."

"Like Jesus, really. Now, let's get you something for that wound."

She turns away, and he remembers that she must have felt the physical pain of every blow on her own tiny features. She has drilled into him her role: to bear his cost of living. To endure for him any injury.

He weeps, and shuts his eyes, concentrates. He imagines he hears a small heartbeat not of his own.

He'll never really make up for that imbalance in the hurt they had flung to each other.

* * *

He loves her. She painted an easy reality for him, melted away all doubts and created a new world he found simple to uphold. He hadn't understood, really, why he had been so resistant to accept the ideals of her truth; she had offered him knowledge of her secret, secret universe, and he had rejected its validity.

How that must have turned her away from him.

The beginnings of a whisper, quiet as the flutter of curtains in a small breeze, takes hold in his mind.

He vows to protect her.

* * *

"You underestimate yourself, Tokino."

"What. . .?"

"I haven't really figured you all out yet."

He lazily opens his eyes.

"What do you mean, Mikado?"

"You're hiding something from me."

"I don't think I am."

"I don't understand what you're thinking lately. You confuse me."

"Mikado-"

"It's alright. I don't really care if I'm wrong. You're mine. That's all that matters."

* * *

_A/N- Instrumentals with woos_


End file.
